Child of Bone
by JessenoSabaku
Summary: Usopp is a humble artist making a modest wage in Syrup Village. But after an encounter with a dying old man on the street, he begins to remember things he wishes would stay forgotten. And in the center of it all is a strange child who can show Usopp that he is more than the sum of his past mistakes. Angsty AU, but some fluffiness will happen. Friendship, Usopp, Chopper. K.


**Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own anything from One Piece. (Love you, Oda!) No profit is being made off this story. This project is done only for fun and writing critique. Please support the official release.**

INTRODUCTION: Aaah crack fics. How I love you so.

So, this is just kinda … a morose idea for a fic that has been percolating in my head. It started out much happier, and was gonna be a random fic about Usopp and Chopper because I haven't written about them much. It was gonna be about those two finding some small child-like creature and raising it together as bros, and was gonna be called "Mama Chopper and Papa Usopp."

… As you can see, the winds of fate shall change as they may. Please tell me what you think, and if I should continue this! I have some good ideas for it, and I don't think it'll be that long of a serial fic.

**(XXX)**

The melding and meshing of days and weeks as they passed stole countless hours out from under the long shadow of Usopp's nose. After twenty three long years of life and enough mistakes to fill an eternity with regret, he'd finally learned one thing about himself—at the deepest of his core, he was an artist. The scratch of his pens and pencils against his sketchpads drowned out the ticking of the clock at his work-table until months raced by, leaving him breathless and looking back on the lost days with a heart and memory so full of emotions and yet so empty at the same time.

In addition to sketching, sometimes he painted too, but sculpting was his favorite. It was expensive to get the materials and even more time-consuming than usual, but the end result was always worth it. There was nothing like holding his creation, feeling the weight of its plaster as if his very emotions had physical mass. It awakened an instinct long-dormant in him, one that caused him much pain and much excitement in a rush of memories he'd moved out of the city to try and forget.

Nami, Usopp's red-haired broker, always seemed to think her client's creations were masterpieces. He could tell she was sincere—her obsession with money exposed her genuineness every time she looked at his artwork with brassy shimmers dancing in her eyes like the gleaming coins she held so dear. She worked him to the bone for his pay, demanding a new art piece every couple of weeks and making him take part in advertising and a handful of art gallery events where he met famous artists whose faces and paintings he never had any love for. But she was honest and fair, and though her commission fee was ridiculously high, she didn't cheat him out of his money any more than that.

A wintry Thursday night found his newest creation finished. Usopp was glad, knowing that Nami would have come by the next morning to pick up the piece whether it was finished or not. He thanked his aching fingers for their hard work, and then surveyed his page.

A small, fantastical landscape—a floating island with a congregation of angel-like creatures, cavorting in a cheerful marketplace and unaware of ominous clouds thundering just above them. Some young angels riding on strange air-borne vehicles rode into town to warn the others of the stormy weather approaching.

Usually, Usopp sketched oceans and rolling hills and sea breezes faintly kissing flat, lush green plateaus. He had a great eye for detail and architecture, and drew a lot of cityscapes and famous historical sites he'd visited. He'd been all around the world, and many sights and scenes around the globe had been imprinted upon him, itching their way into his fingers when it was their turn to be drawn. But what he liked drawing the most was the abstract and fantasy—creatures no one has seen before, societies that have yet to be discovered. He escaped into the safe haven of bright colors and planets where making money and eating and breathing and living weren't necessary anymore. Nami didn't like these sketches as much. Sometimes she would look at them, give him a sad stare, and sigh. He knew what she wanted to say, but was grateful she didn't say it.

"Why shouldn't I get to sketch what I really love?" Usopp said to himself as he looked at the ceiling. "Abstract or realistic, it's all the same."

He'd spent so much time drawing things that already existed, things people could go see on their own—they didn't need his drawings to get a view of the Red Line or the warm, cozy clusters of houses filling troubled little Dressrosa to the brim. They didn't need Usopp to see those scenes, so drawing them was getting tiring.

"Maybe I'll get something to eat," Usopp muttered to himself, heading into the kitchen. He shivered in the frigid air of his apartment. The shitty heating unit had been busted for three winters. Usopp didn't really have the money or time to get it fixed, and usually was too zoned out with his work to notice the frost nipping at his toes. When he opened the fridge door, a gust of even chillier wind iced the very marrow in his bones. He frowned as he realized that his fridge was nearly empty except for a jar of pickles and a carton of orange juice. His stomach grumbled forlornly and he wished Nami would sell his new piece soon so he could buy more groceries.

He had a little bit of money, so he decided to go out for a late dinner. He checked the clock, and though it said it was 12:00 A.M., he knew of a breakfast place nearby that sold breakfast around the clock where he could get a nice stack of flapjacks. He threw on a thick brown jacket lined with exorbitant amounts of fake fur—one of the few luxurious things he owned—and hopped out of his tiny apartment and down the street, completely black except for a few streetlights, struggling to cast a silver glow over the pavement. Usopp's building was located at the top of a large hill so whenever he went out for a walk he could see the whole town, rooftops glittering with bright innocence.

This town, called Syrup Village, got its name from its main export and was Usopp's hometown. Known for any kind of syrup, this prosperous village shipped out hundreds of gallons of it in buckets to all corners of the world every day. The village's people were all overweight and happy—children drowned in childhoods filled with maple syrup, strawberry syrup, oak syrup, sweet and salty syrup, and waffles and pancakes were a staple of household mornings and restaurants alike. All except Usopp, whose childhood hadn't been filled with the same sweetness and whose adult years had left him a skinny, scrubby, knotty-muscled artist.

He got partway down the hill when he heard a voice chirp merrily at him from across the street.

"Good evening! You're looking fine tonight!"

Usopp stopped and looked across the street, squinting to see who was there. Obscured under the light and shadow of a street lamp, a very tall, lanky man was swaying. There came drifting through the air a faint sound of distracted humming, fading in and out tiredly as if the hummer were trying to keep himself awake. Since he didn't say anything further, Usopp stood still and watched him without answering, wondering if the man were talking to him or talking to himself.

Just when he was about to turn and leave, he heard the man speak up again.

"It's my birthday today!" he shouted gleefully. Then he danced across the street without looking both ways, his travelling motions ranging from nearly crawling on the ground to flitting through the sky. His movements were effortlessly divine. As he drew nearer, Usopp could see wrinkles caressing his face like rings in on a tree stump and a scar across the man's forehead as if he'd been cracked like an egg. Sunglasses veiled his eyes in mystery and dark, stiff, puffy curls like sheep's wool wrapped around his head. He held a small white bundle at his side.

"I'm one-hundred and twenty-three years old today!" The old man laughed heartily. "Yohohohoho~! Would you believe it? One-hundred and twenty-three! My, my have I seen the world turn!"

Being that old really would be something, if Usopp had really believed him. The man moved in ways that only men a sixteenth of his age should have been able to.

For lack of better things to say, Usopp could only say dumbly, "Happy Birthday."

Another peal of infectious laughter vaulted from the man's chest. "How kind that you would wish this old man a happy birthday. You probably think I'm crazy, don't you?" Though Usopp didn't respond, his thoughts were plain on his face. With a broad grin, the old man assured him, "I really am one-hundred and twenty-three, you know?"

"Well … happy birthday," Usopp repeated. They stood there in a short measure of silence, the younger not sure what to say, and the older having too much to say to know how to express it. Usopp had seen a lot of crazy hobos in his time, so he assumed that this was just another lonely old-timer who wanted a bit of attention. Normally Usopp would just ignore him and leave, but this old man had caught his interest and he was in a good mood.

So Usopp said, "I was on my way to have breakfast. Would you like to join me? To celebrate, I mean."

"Oh, you don't know how happy it would make me," the man said, voice tinged with a low hum of sadness. Then he added, as if talking to himself, "There are so few kind people left in my life."

Suddenly the old man lurched dangerously, almost clipping Usopp's nose with the top of his hair. He caught himself by putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder, holding himself up shakily.

"Oh, excuse me. I'm normally very good at keeping my balance, yohohoho …"

He spoke with the same meaningless joy, but Usopp could hear its weakness beneath, and it made him pale. He knew the sound lurking in those shrill chords—he could hear the sing-song voice filling with a rush of blood. The life-giving crimson sputtered from the elderly man's mouth, dropping onto Usopp's now-trembling hands.

"Would you do me one last favor?" The man asked this of the long-nosed artist as if they'd been the oldest of friends—perhaps they'd known each other in another life.

"You're dying," Usopp noted dumbly, his voice quaking. His sharp eyes picked out three circular holes punched erratically across the old man's clothes chest, red seeping out and making the black cloth darker than the midnight surrounding them.

The old man handed Usopp the white bundle from under his arm. The young man received it without thinking, and was startled at how heavy it was.

Confused, Usopp began to unwrap the white cloth. As soon as he started, he stopped and stared in shock. Inside, resting with peaceful, closed eyes was what looked like a small child with caramel-colored skin. Its nose was blue, but the abnormal color didn't seem to be from the cold.

"Take him," came a soft, cheerful command. "He's the only thing I have left."

Usopp's mind was a mess of long-forgotten instincts—parts of his mind screamed "call for help; "save him"; "finish him off." His panic at his own wild, uncontrollable thoughts rendered him unable to make proper judgments. He could do nothing but obey.

He clutched the bundle to his chest and ran back home, trying to forget the brilliant, gentle smile of the dying man. That smile would be the last expression that man would ever wear—his last testament. And it had been wasted on this cowardly monster who fled without looking back, not knowing what he carried in his arms.

**(XXX)**

Note: Don't let that last line fool you! I love Usopp to death. But there's a reason for that line, one I won't spoil. If you want to know what it is, let me know if I should continue the story by reviewing!


End file.
